Gradually the nights were getting shorter and the weather, at least on the ground, was becoming warmer. Shorter nights were good news for us. They meant that we were sent to targets that required less time flying over Germany itself: we went instead to the North Sea ports, military bases in the occupied countries or the industrial towns in north-east Germany.
JL’s odd behaviour continued, but now it took a slightly different form.
One afternoon, for example, I hitched a lift into Barnham, the nearest town to the airfield. I’d finally grown fed up with suffering cold feet during our long flights. The standard-issue socks were too thin. Even if you put on several pairs under your flying boots you still weren’t warm enough. I was looking around the shops, hoping to find some woollen socks. They’d been in short supply throughout the winter – shortages of just about everything was something we had to put up with. I saw JL walking along the road on the other side, coming towards me. We were too far apart to speak to each other, but it was certainly him and because he was looking around our eyes briefly met. I raised my hand in greeting. He made no response and walked on.
This encounter struck me as odd for a couple of reasons. We were due to be on an op that night, which was incidentally why I’d picked that afternoon to try to buy some warm socks. JL was on the base with the rest of the crew. I’d eaten lunch with him in the canteen and in fact I’d been talking to him by the main gate before I hopped on the truck for a lift into town. He hadn’t travelled with me, so I was surprised to see him again so soon. Finally, and this was what made an impression: he was out of uniform, wearing civvy clothes.
I carried on, found a shop, used my clothing coupons to buy a couple of pairs of the socks I wanted and was back at the airfield in time for a cup of tea with the others. I saw JL soon after I arrived, but the incident hardly seemed worth remarking on and was soon forgotten. That night we went to Brest docks, trying to hit the German battlecruiser Gneisenau.
The following day, during the afternoon, I ran into Lofty Skinner, who asked me if I’d seen JL anywhere about. I said not. Lofty told me there was a message for him from Group, but he was nowhere in the Officers’ Mess, nor in his room, the ground crew hadn’t seen him and according to the guardroom he’d not left the base. The next day we saw JL again, talking to one of the other pilots outside the NAAFI.
One evening around the middle of April, Lofty and I came up on the rota for one of the regular perimeter patrols. Perimeter checks had to be carried out twice a day and were one of the more unpopular routine duties, especially in winter. All the crews had to take their turn. It involved a long walk around the airfield, taking the best part of two hours, checking not only that the fence was still intact and that there were no obvious signs of anyone trying to get in, but also testing the navigation and landing lights. In fact these lights were used only rarely or selectively, because of the risk from enemy intruders, but they had to be switched on for night landings and in emergencies, when they were of course invaluable.
We were at the furthest, western end of the airfield, about as far away from the admin and ops buildings as it was possible to get. Here the runway ran out into the countryside, with a main road some distance away on one side, separated from us by a field and some hedgerows, and with several dense patches of woodland on the other. Lofty suddenly touched my arm.
‘Look, Sam,’ he said, pointing ahead. ‘That’s the skipper, isn’t it?’
We could see a male figure dimly distinguishable ahead, standing among the trees that grew up thickly against the fence. He was too far away for us to make out his features clearly, but his size and the way he stood were familiar and we both immediately recognized him as JL. He was not in his uniform but was wearing a large, dark brown overcoat. At the moment we first saw him he appeared not to have noticed us, but as we drew nearer he glanced quickly in our direction then stepped back into the trees. By the time we reached the part of the perimeter closest to him, there was no sign of him.
Now, what might seem peculiar is that neither Lofty nor I said anything about what we had seen. At the time I found it difficult, particularly Lofty’s lack of a reaction: did he know something I didn’t?, had I been mistaken in identifying the man?, was Lofty waiting for me to say something about it?, and so on. Three-quarters of an hour later we were back at squadron headquarters.
Soon after we had turned in our guard rifles, we were walking back to the mess and almost the first person we saw was JL. He was wearing his RAF uniform again. He said nothing about the incident in the wood.
Afterwards, I said to Lofty, ‘That was JL standing in the trees, wasn’t it?’
He obviously knew at once what I meant.
‘Yes. Have you any idea what he was up to?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
‘I was talking to Ted this morning. He said he’d seen JL hanging around outside the guard post at the main gate.’
‘No reason why he shouldn’t,’ I said.
‘That’s right. But also, there’s no reason why he should.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘He’s still a good pilot, though.’
‘Yes.’
4
In the last week of April I was given a weekend pass, so I went to stay with my parents in their house in north London. One of my sisters, Sara, had joined the Auxiliary Nursing Service and was being posted to a hospital in Liverpool. She was also passing through that weekend, before heading up north. We were concerned for her because at that time the Blitz was at its height and the seaports were being attacked regularly. Churchill was still in full control and everywhere you went you heard and saw the effect he was having. Germany could never beat Britain so long as that extraordinary mood of bravery and resilience survived. Sara and I felt stirred by it, but also humbled. You could only do a bit yourself. Dad took us down to a part of Green Lanes that had been flattened in a recent night raid. We walked around for a while, looking in horror at the damage to the area we knew so well, where we grew up. On the Saturday night the whole family went out to a pub, followed by a dance.
My dad was a sports fan and over lunch on Sunday, shortly before I was due to set off on the slow journey back to the airfield, he mentioned that he’d seen our squadron mentioned in one of the newspapers. A former sporting hero had become a bomber pilot with the RAF and was based at Tealby Moor. He asked me if I knew who they meant. Of course, without more clues than that it could have been anyone. Dad said he’d kept the newspaper and he started hunting around for it, determined to show me and to find out the name of the man. He was still searching when I had to leave.
The following evening, when I was back at the base, Dad phoned me from a callbox. His voice was faint and we were limited to three minutes, but his excitement was almost tangible.
‘That chap I told you about,’ he shouted down the line. ‘His name is Sawyer, J. L. Sawyer. Do you know him?’
‘JL’s our pilot, Dad,’ I said. ‘I told you that ages ago, when I first got here. He’ll be in that crew photograph I sent you.’
‘Name wouldn’t have meant anything to me then. But listen, I’ve been looking him up in a book in the library and he took a bronze for Great Britain.’
‘A bronze medal?’ I said stupidly. ‘Like in the Olympics?’
‘That’s right. He was out in Berlin in 1936. The Jerries came first, but it was a hard race and we came in a good third. Has he ever talked about it?’
‘No, never. Not to me, at any rate.’
‘Why don’t you ask him? That was something, going over to Germany like that and winning a few medals.’
‘What event was he in, Dad? Was he a runner, or what?’
‘He was a rower. Coxless pairs. It all comes back to me. I heard it on the wireless at the time. It was him and his brother, identical twins called Sawyer. They did well for England, they did.’
‘Does it say what his brother’s name is?’ I said.
‘They didn’t put first names in the book. All the compet
itors are there under their initials. That’s the funny thing about those two: they had the same initials. “J. L.” That’s what they were both called.’
‘Does it say one of them was called Jack?’
‘No … just “J. L.” for them both,’ my father said, but our conversation ended peremptorily when the money ran out.
5
Then came the evening of May 10, 1941, the night our plane was shot down.
It began as one of those long evenings of early summer when light seems to hang around for ever, even after sunset. During the long winter we had grown used to the idea that we would take off in the dark and never see daylight again until we woke up the next day, after the raid. But now we were in May and double summer time had been introduced the weekend before. We took off while the sun was still just above the horizon and as we circled for height and set out eastwards across the North Sea we were flying in a serene evening light. The air was soft, free of turbulence. Whenever I went to the navigator’s dome to take a positional fix I could see the long twilight lingering around us.
We were about a hour into the flight, still climbing slowly towards our operating altitude, when Ted Burrage in the forward gun turret suddenly yelled into the intercom.
‘Fighters! German fighters down there!’
‘Where are they, Ted?’ JL’s voice came immediately. He sounded calm. ‘I can’t see them yet.’
‘About twelve o’clock, sir. Dead ahead, quite a long way off.’
‘I still can’t see them.’
‘Sorry, there’s only one. Me-110, I think. Way below us, heading west, straight for us.’
‘Is he acting as if he’s seen us?’
‘I don’t think so!’
I was standing at the side nav window at the time and had a clear view around and below us. No other aircraft were in sight. As soon as Ted called his warning I moved forward, clambering up into the cockpit behind JL’s seat so that I could look through the main canopy. Moments later I too could see the plane: a small black shape, some way below us, fully visible against a silvery plateau of clouds.
It was unusual to meet any German fighters so far out to sea, even more so to see one at low altitude. Luftwaffe pilots normally gained the advantage of height before diving to attack.
‘Permission to open fire on him, skip?’ Ted said. ‘He’s almost in range.’
‘No, keep an eye on him, Ted. No point letting him know we’re here if he hasn’t spotted us yet.’
I suddenly made out a movement beyond the Me-110.
‘There are more of them down there!’ I said. ‘Look! Behind him!’
Four single-engined fighters were rapidly catching up with the larger aircraft, swooping down on it from the east. Even as I watched they went into a steep turning dive and accelerated towards the twin-engined plane. I could see the firefly flicker of their wing-mounted cannons, the lines of tracer curving towards the Me-110. The pilot of the twin-engined plane responded at last, making a climbing turn, briefly presenting a plan shape of his aircraft against the grey clouds, but then twisting around, diving away from his attackers. I saw a spurt of flame from one of his engines.
Our own track was taking us on past the fight. We were almost on top of the German aircraft. I dodged back to one of the side windows, but could see nothing.
‘Boom! Boom!’ It was Kris’s distinctive voice, loud in my earphones.
‘What’s up?’ said JL.
‘They got him! I see it all. Four Me-109s and a 110. They got him! Boom!’
‘Is he down?’
‘Bloody big bang! Big flames, big smoke! Down in the sea, skip!’
‘What about the 109s?’
‘Can’t see. They scattered.’
‘Kris, are you certain you saw the 110 crash?’
‘Rear gunner has best seat. Germans attacking Germans. Good stuff!’
‘OK, everyone, keep your eyes open for more bandits.’
I clambered awkwardly up through the fuselage, past Col’s radio kit, and returned to the cockpit, intending to talk to JL about what had happened. He was fully alert, scanning the sky in all directions. He registered my presence and unclipped the mike so we could speak direct.
‘Did you see the 110 go down, Sam?’ he shouted over the roar of the engines.
‘No. We’ve only Kris to go on.’
‘Good enough for me,’ JL said, and I nodded vehemently. We both clipped our mikes on again.
‘More Messerschmitts!’ It was Ted again, from the front turret. ‘About three o’clock. Below us again.’
I craned forward, trying to see down and to the right-hand side. JL kept the Wellington on a steady track, still climbing slowly.
‘I can see!’ I shouted. ‘Same thing as before … another Me-110, this one heading due north. He’ll cross under us in a moment.’
‘Has he seen us?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
He was a long way off to our right, flying low against the clouds, crossing our track.
‘Hold your fire, gunners!’ JL said crisply. ‘They’re not looking for us.’
‘What’s going on down there, JL?’
‘Haven’t the faintest.’
‘There are the 109s again!’ This was Lofty, from somewhere down the fuselage. ‘They must have circled round.’
‘No, the last lot buggered off,’ I said. I could see the smaller fighters now, flying fast and low from the south, catching up with the 110. Apart from the different direction from which they appeared, it was an almost exact replay of what we had seen a few moments before. I saw the fighters go into a diving turn, accelerating towards the larger aircraft. Cannon fire glinted on their wings. Tracer curled across the short gap between them.
But once again our track was taking us over the dogfight.
‘We’re losing sight of them, Kris! Can you see what’s going on?’
‘Rear gunner has best seat. Yeah! They go for him!’
I moved back from the cockpit and found Lofty pressing his face against the thick perspex of the port-side nav window. I crammed up against him, trying to see.
‘They miss!’ It was Kris again, from the rear turret. ‘He’s OK!’
‘They’ll go round again, won’t they?’
‘I lost them. Wait!’
JL came on. ‘Don’t forget, if any of those crates see us we’re in trouble. No one relax!’
‘Yes skip.’
‘Sam, can you get a fix for us? I need to know where we are, how far from the coast.’
‘OK, JL. Give me a few minutes.’
From the rear, Kris said, ‘I can’t see them no more. The 110 was OK. I saw him fly on.’
‘Which direction was he going in?’
‘Due north.’
‘What about the Me-109s?’
‘Like you say, they bugger off.’
We remained fully alert, knowing for certain that there were German fighters in the vicinity, knowledge no bomber crew liked to have. A strange sense of purpose settled on us. With remarkable efficiency the gunners reported at regular intervals on what they could see in the skies around us and I completed the fix I had been taking.
When I had worked out our position, I reported the information over the intercom to JL.
‘How far does that put us from the German coast?’ he said.
‘A couple of hundred miles,’ I replied. ‘About two hundred and sixty from the Danish coast, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because that was the direction the first lot were coming from. That would place their airfield somewhere on the Danish mainland.’
‘They might have come from Germany.’
‘It looked to me as if the second lot did. Either way, the Me-109s would have been close to the limit of their range.’
‘Presumably that’s why they buzzed off as soon as they could.’
‘Right. So what were they up to, trying to shoot down their own?’
‘Beats me.’
We were closing on the German coast and we said nothing more about the strange incident. Other business was more pressing. By this time it was completely dark outside the aircraft and I needed to take another positional fix to be certain of where we would be crossing the coast. I worked it out and reported it to JL: our landfall would be a few miles to the west of Cuxhaven.
Not long after, Ted Burrage reported flak coming up from below and the familiar sick feeling of fear rose in me. While we were under attack from anti-aircraft fire, or while we were on a bombing run, I had to sit tight inside my little cubicle, unable to see what was happening outside. All I had to go on was the movement of the aircraft, the change in the pitch of the engines, the explosions of the flak and the often incoherent shouts from the rest of the crew coming through the intercom. On those flights in which we penetrated deep into German or occupied territory the racket could continue for several hours.
That night, though, our target was Hamburg, a port about fifty miles inland from the coast on the long estuary of the River Elbe, so we wouldn’t have to be over enemy territory for long. I plotted the route from the coast to our turning point and reported the bearing to JL. After that I worked out the course that would take us directly over the Hamburg docks, the intended drop-zone for bombing. After the plane had manoeuvred round to the new course I heard the voices of the rest of the crew changing when they reported in. As we neared the target everyone spoke more quickly. Their breath rasped noisily in my headset and sentences were left unfinished. They all seemed to be on the point of shouting.
While we were still on the way to the bombing zone I began to work out the best course for home: the shortest route back to the German coastline, a dog-leg to take us around the known positions of certain German flak ships moored offshore, then, once we were safely out to sea, swinging round to take us by a direct westerly route towards the beacon on the Lincolnshire coast and after that to our airfield. All the time the aircraft was shifting attitude and position and bucking violently whenever a flak shell burst close to us, but from the sound of Ted Burrage’s voice, and from JL’s responses, I gained the impression that things were going as smoothly as could be expected. Those last moments before the drop were the worst for most of the crew, but it was a time of great concentration for the bomb aimer and pilot.